


just like candy

by nishtabel



Series: keep with me in the moment [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, FWB, M/M, Major Big Dick Energy, Rimming, alternatively titled: sylvain catches feelings and pretends he didn’t, porn with feelings (kind of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21950695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: Sylvain and Dimitri have a perfectly normal, fine, healthy friends-with-benefits relationship. They are friends, and they enjoy the benefits. Except Dimitri requests something new for Christmas and Sylvain says yes, and the whole world shifts a bit.There may also be feelings involved.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: keep with me in the moment [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659250
Comments: 12
Kudos: 440





	just like candy

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas and happy holidays! i present to you: dimivain, the brainworm that won’t leave me alone. thank you to everyone on twitter who liked That Tweet and helped make this a reality ;)
> 
> i wrote this, as promised, to doja cat’s “candy.” i hope you all enjoy!

It’s Christmas Eve, and they don’t meet on purpose.

Or—that’s not exactly right. It’s Christmas Eve, and they meet _kind of_ on purpose, because Sylvain gets day drunk with Felix and Annette and sends Dimitri a remarkably bad pick-up line, and Dimitri texts back three crying-laughing emojis, because _oh_ , yeah, Dimitri has the sense of humor of a forty-year-old dad, and somehow that had turned into Sylvain googling “bad pick-up lines” and texting Dimitri a slightly giddy, _i love every bone in your body………especially mine ;)_. And then, because Dimitri is Dimitri, he waits a whole thirty seconds before replying, _I like that_ , because he’s twenty-five going on fifty, and, _I like having your bone in my body_.

Sylvain surprises himself with a laugh and replies, _flatterer_. Never mind the fact that his dick loves the praise.

Dimitri doesn’t reply, and for the most part, it disappears from Sylvain’s mind. Annette returns to the room with three champagne flutes in hand, a fresh bottle of champagne in the other, and when he sees Felix’s eyes light up—sees his grab for the champagne sabre—Sylvain knows he has other things to worry about.

That’s why, two hours and a bottle of champagne later, Sylvain chokes when he checks his phone. _Would you like to bring your bone over now?_ , Dimitri wrote, with a timestamp next to it that says: _12m ago_. There’s a picture attached that he _knows_ not to open with company.

“I gotta go,” he says, grabbing his coat from Annette’s couch. He checks for his keys in his right pocket, nods at the jingle of them, and yanks the door open. “I’ll see you guys later.”

The door closes just as Felix cries, “You’re my _ride_ —”

* * *

He doesn’t tell Dimitri he’s coming. He feels it’s only fair, because when he opens Dimitri’s text in his car, he’s greeted by the flushed head of Dimitri’s drooling cock peeking over the top of his Rudolph boxers. Dimitri’s hand is just out of focus, cupping his balls with his thumb brushing over the thick shaft through the fabric, and—

And Sylvain is driving, because Dimitri is playing a dangerous game.

He knows the fastest way to Dimitri’s house is through the park, even if he almost misses the turn. He takes the turn going thirty because he knows his car can handle it, even if the tires screech and he sees an older woman in his rearview mirror flip him off over her tiny dog. He dismisses it because she’s dressed head-to-toe in red and black plaid flannel and she’s stuffed her dog into an absolutely heartless elf costume. Not even the antlers glued to her earmuffs can make up for that cruelty.

He cuts through the park and turns onto Dimitri’s street with an urgency he’s quite sure is all his dick, and none the rapid beating of his heart (or the flush of his face, or the odd, unfamiliar fluttering of his stomach). He’s not so weak that he peels into Dimitri’s driveway with the aggressive creak of his brakes, so he forces himself to slow down just in time to round the corner to Dimitri’s house and pull in right behind him, smooth and quiet and absolutely befitting of a gentleman.

He still slams the door.

Sylvain knows where Dimitri keeps the spare key because Dimitri had, about two months into their arrangement, suggested he use it more often. Dimitri had blushed and Sylvain had scoffed, and until today, he hadn’t thought to use spare key privileges. Or, he had—but he’s not trying to look desperate.

He’s not desperate.

He finds the key and slides it into the lock, grunting with the weight of the door as he shoulders it open. “It’s original hardwood,” Dimitri had told him, weird and proud and beaming. “It’s fucking heavy, is what it is,” Sylvain had replied, and proceeded to shove Dimitri up against it.

Now, as he steps into the foyer, he finds it empty. Dimitri’s two dogs must be out back; they’re huge and boisterous and only _really_ love Dimitri, and Sylvain knows they’d be all over him if they were inside to hear him. Instead, silence reigns, and Sylvain toes off his shoes before slipping up the stairs to Dimitri’s bedroom.

“Hello,” he says, just around the corner. “I’ve come to fix your terrible fashion sense.” He hears Dimitri grunt with laughter, and so having announced himself, he steps into the bedroom.

Dimitri is—decidedly less sexy than the text may have suggested. He’s dressed in an oversized red sweater, hair pulled back in a scrunchie and his Rudolph boxers slung low on his hips. Sylvain might have thought it was on purpose if not for the fact that they had very clearly ended up like that for the way that Dimitri is half off the bed, suspended only by his hips and the two strong arms that hold him upright.

“What are you doing.” Sylvain can hardly bring himself to ask.

“Stretching,” Dimitri replies, and walks himself backward onto the bed. Sylvain notes the strain of his muscles, the flex just beneath where he’s shoved his sweater up to his elbows. “But I suppose I’m done now.” Dimitri grins. “Merry Christmas.”

“Not Christmas yet,” Sylvain corrects, but still joins him on the bed. He’s civilized and suave, so instead of sitting ass-first onto the bed, Sylvain crawls over from the foot on his hands and knees. He grins back at Dimitri, waggling his eyebrows. “But you can still give me my present.”

Dimitri looks as though he’s going to rebuke him, but instead he laughs against a gentle exhale and tips Sylvain’s face up for a kiss. Sylvain lets it happen, leans into it, hums when Dimitri’s tongue licks against the seam of his lips.

“Eager,” he murmurs, lips slick where they press against Dimitri’s.

“Only for you,” Dimitri replies, and Sylvain refuses to read into that.

Sylvain is thankful they’re already on the bed, so he can press Dimitri into the mattress and push one cold hand up under his ugly sweater. Dimitri hisses at the contact, pulls away to snark at Sylvain, but Sylvain gets to his nipple before he can speak and all that comes out when Dimitri opens his mouth is a whining keen, brows drawn together in a scowl even as Dimitri bucks his hips up.

“Fuck,” Dimitri says, and he may have meant to say “fuck you,” except he doesn’t get the chance because Sylvain pinches and rolls the nipple between his fingers, thumb cold against the pebbling flesh.

“That’s the plan,” Sylvain murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of Dimitri’s mouth before moving further down. Dimitri arches beneath him just as Sylvain presses a wet kiss to the sharp cut of his jaw, lips followed by the scrape of teeth and a laugh. “Are you gonna be good for me?”

Dimitri nods, legs shifting on either side of Sylvain to bracket him with bent knees. Sylvain attacks his throat next, bites at the tender spot above his jugular, draws blunt nails down the breadth of Dimitri’s chest. Dimitri squirms for him, mewls for him, is _good_ for him, and Sylvain rewards him with the press of his palm against the growing bulge of Dimitri’s jeans. It’s over just as it’s begun, just as Sylvain’s hand lights above Dimitri’s half-hard cock, and Dimitri’s hips chase the pressure when Sylvain pulls away.

“Now, now,” Sylvain soothes, sliding both hands beneath Dimitri’s sweater. “Why don’t we get this off, first?”

Dimitri does as he’s told. He tugs the sweater over his head, ponytail catching at the neck before the scrunchie slips from his hair with the collar. Dimitri leaves the scrunchie and tosses the sweater across the room, landing with a soft _thunk_ in the corner. Sylvain is positive Dimitri will find it a week from now, sniff it, and deem it good enough to wear again.

“Why are you making that face?” Dimitri asks, squirming beneath him like a child. He’s pouting like one, too. “Come back here.”

Sylvain decides that Dimitri has gotten entirely too cocky. Sylvain grins, slides his hands down Dimitri’s arms, murmurs his appreciation at the way Dimitri flexes beneath him—and grasps Dimitri’s wrists, one in each hand, and pulls them above the halo of unruly blond hair to “ _Keep them there_.”

Dimitri swallows and nods, but Sylvain keeps one hand on them for good measure. Dimitri whines and shifts again, chest arching towards Sylvain, and Sylvain clicks his tongue. “You’re so needy, Dimitri,” he says, wonder in his voice. It’s only half-forced; Dimitri is fully hard beneath him, breath already coming in short, sharp pants from his nostrils, and his lips are swollen and pink and wet. Sylvain watches as Dimitri licks them, gaze following the movement before he leans down and chases it.

They stay like that, for a moment: Sylvain bracketed by Dimitri’s thighs and one hand stretched above him to hold Dimitri’s wrists, the harsh drag of his jeans against the soft cotton of Dimitri’s boxers, half-wet now with precum. They kiss lazily, fully, almost casually, with Sylvain’s tongue thrust into Dimitri’s mouth and Dimitri open and whole for him. He’s like this for Sylvain, every time for Sylvain: open and pliant and as giving as he is needy, legs moving to lock ankles over the swell of Sylvain’s ass as Dimitri arches into him, rolls his hips, gasps and strains against Sylvain’s hold.

Dimitri loves this—every second of it, every kiss and touch and tease.

Sylvain pulls back just far enough to speak, a strand of spit still locking their mouths. “I’m gonna strip,” he says, because his jeans are getting uncomfortable, and every inch of him that isn’t pressed against Dimitri’s bare skin is shivering with the need to press, to own, to consume. To touch and be touched and to _claim_.

Dimitri nods. The spit breaks and lands on his chin. Sylvain watches it, feels his cock twitch, and releases Dimitri’s hands.

He always kicks himself for this part, because he never remembers to take his pants off before he crawls into bed, even though their meetings or dates or _whatever_ always end the same way—with Dimitri on hands and knees or on his back or, more recently, easing himself down on Sylvain’s cock as Sylvain steadies him with two hands at his hips. They always fuck. That’s what Sylvain is here for, and yet each time, he still finds himself pulling back with a shiver and a sigh and a grumpy, grouchy tug at his button and fly. He drops his pants at the side of the bed— _his side_ , the left side, the side he always claims for the fifteen post-coital minutes he allows himself—and slithers back to Dimitri, fully naked and cock half-hard where it hangs between his legs.

“No underwear,” Dimitri comments. “Were you expecting something?”

“No,” Sylvain says, and relishes Dimitri’s surprise. “Well—maybe I was hoping.”

Dimitri smiles at him, all dimples and white teeth, and pulls Sylvain to him. This time, Sylvain crouches above him, rests his ass just above Dimitri’s cock where it strains against his boxers. Rudolph stares up at him and Sylvain stares back, and then finally he says, “We gotta get you out of these.”

Sylvain lifts himself onto his knees and helps Dimitri shimmy out of his boxers, dick hard and wet at the tip where it springs to curve against his belly. Dimitri balls Rudolph up and tosses him, and Sylvain pointedly ignores the fact Dimitri’s underwear lands on top of the Sweater That Will Be Worn Again.

Sylvain’s not here to think about that. He’s here to think about Dimitri, and Dimitri’s mouth, and Dimitri’s dick, and maybe if he’s really lucky, he’ll be allowed to think about Dimitri’s ass. Sylvain settles over Dimitri’s thighs, offering one hot-slick-slide of his cock against Dimitri’s before he replaces that touch with his hand, palming his dick where it lies, flat and hard, against his belly.

“How long have you been edging yourself?” Sylvain asks, because he knows it’s true. Dimitri wouldn’t be this hard, this flushed and wet, without much more attention—Sylvain only gets him leaking precum and twitching beneath him after a particularly good blowjob or with two fingers halfway up his ass.

Dimitri turns his head and refuses to meet Sylvain’s gaze, but still admits, “A couple hours.”

Sylvain hums, still stroking languidly at Dimitri’s cock as he leans down to ghost a kiss against Dimitri’s lips. “A couple hours,” he echoes, considering. “Were _you_ expecting something?”

“Maybe I was hoping,” Dimitri replies, teasing, before he leans up at captures Sylvain’s lips with his own. His tongue slides into Sylvain’s mouth, thick and heady and warm, and Sylvain sucks before thrusting _back,_ licking into Dimitri’s mouth, pressing down and in and open, and Dimitri takes it, moans against him, into him, and Sylvain feels a spurt of precum slick his fingers.

He pulls back, eyes unfocused. Dimitri pants beneath him, chest heaving as he catches his breath.

“I was thinking,” Dimitri says, voice hoarse and a bit bloated from Sylvain’s tongue in his mouth. Sylvain pulls back to let him speak, brows raised. His hand slows on Dimitri’s cock, grip loose, but doesn’t stop. “I thought we could try something today.” There’s a blush on Dimitri’s face that wasn’t there thirty seconds ago, and listen, Sylvain has a lot of faith in his ability, but he knows embarrassment when he sees it. He’s _very_ curious now.

“Mm,” he offers, thumbing a bead of precum from the head of Dimitri’s cock. He swirls it thoughtfully around the head, licking his lips and holding his tongue there. He cocks his head. “What did you have in mind?”

Dimitri breathes through his nose, even as his eyes flutter shut and he rolls his hips into Sylvain’s grasp. “Wanted—” He gasps, bites at his lower lip, catches a groan in his throat. His eyes open to meet Sylvain’s, blue more striking for the black that threatens to engulf it. “Wanted you to ride me.”

Sylvain’s grip flexes around Dimitri’s cock, wringing a moan from Dimitri’s mouth. “Oh,” he says, _purrs_ , and leans closer. “How long have you wanted that, Dimitri?” His smile is wide, toothy, a bit dangerous. He knows what it does to Dimitri, and he leans into it. 

Dimitri shudders against him before he speaks. “A while,” he admits, and oh, Sylvain likes that.

He presses a kiss against Dimitri’s open mouth, licks between his lips and pulls away with a nip at his bottom lip. “Mm.” His fingers skate along Dimitri’s sides, tripping over gooseflesh and the smooth, warm curve of his pecs. This is how he loves Dimitri most: powerful, strong and _good_ , and absolutely at Sylvain’s mercy. “You like the idea of me riding you, huh? Is that what you were thinking about earlier, when you sent me that filthy picture of your cock?” He grinds down against Dimitri, rubs the cleft of his ass against Dimitri’s thick cock. It’s big, he thinks, but he can take it.

Dimitri nods again, and Sylvain continues, shuddering when the drag of his hips forces the head of Dimitri’s dick to bump against his taint. “Is that what you want for Christmas, Dimitri? Hm? You want my tight ass on your cock, wanna watch me bounce up and down for you, wanna split me open til I can’t say anything but your name—”

They both groan at that, Sylvain’s balls clenching in warning as he hangs head, panting. His hands shudder where they hold him up against Dimitri’s chest, thumbs twitching against Dimitri’s nipples and drawing another shiver, another moan from him. “Yes,” Dimitri breathes, and how can Sylvain say no to that?

“I _suppose_ I can make an exception for you,” he says, coy and syrup-sweet. “You have to open me up, though. I won’t do all the work.”

“Yes,” Dimitri says again, reaching blindly for the bedside table where they—where _Dimitri_ keeps his lube. The stretch of it grinds Dimitri’s cock up against Sylvain’s balls, the blunt head smearing precum as it pulls at him, teases him, draws a spurt of slick from Sylvain’s own cock. They’ve been doing this for months and Sylvain has only ever fucked Dimitri, has only ever opened Dimitri up on his fingers, only ever pressed into the slick, tight heat of him as Dimitri squirmed and whined and fucked down onto him, hands at his face and shoulders and waist, ticklish against his hips. Fucking Dimitri is _easy_ ; Dimitri is eager for him, always opens so sweetly for him, clenches and flutters around him like the virgin he is— _was_ , before Sylvain came along.

Now, with the hot press of Dimitri’s cock against his ass, Sylvain wonders why he’s never thought to do this before. Dimitri looks nervous, of course, and Sylvain knows he’s never done something—anything—like this, but Sylvain can guide him through it, he _can_ , he’s done it before—

Dimitri returns to him with lube in hand, fingers a bit twitchy as they flip open the cap, but confident enough. This, Dimitri has done before—maybe not on Sylvain, but definitely on himself, and while there may be some fumbling, Dimitri still knows what to look for, what to _feel_ for, and how fast he should go. Sylvain will take care of the rest.

“Ready?” Dimitri asks, voice betraying his nerves.

“Of course I’m ready,” Sylvain says, except, no, there’s a better way to do this. “Actually, hold on.” Dimitri looks afraid, then, but, “I’m just readjusting.” Sylvain slips onto his hands and knees, grabs a pillow and bends it in half before shoving it under his hips. “This’ll be easier.”

There’s a pause in which Sylvain is pretty sure Dimitri nods before realizing Sylvain can’t see him, and then he says, “Okay.”

Sylvain pushes his ass back toward Dimitri, half to tantalize Dimitri into doing _something_ and half to ease the aching of his cock, hard now where it presses against the swell of the pillow. He ruts with shallow thrusts of his hips, eyes fluttering shut as he chases the pleasure that curls in his belly and helps him relax. Sure, he’s done this before, but it’s been a while. He’s trying to think of how long it’s been, actually, tries to remember the last person he’d deigned to let fuck him, except—

Dimitri hands are spreading him, palms hot against the curve of his ass, and Sylvain is ready to snap at him to _hurry up_ , he likes Dimitri but he _will_ change his mind, but then Dimitri’s tongue is pressing against his hole, warm and wet and slick, a softness Sylvain has so rarely felt, and he feels his eyes roll back as he bucks against the heat of Dimitri’s mouth.

“Fuck,” Sylvain hears himself hiss, hands curled in the sheets. “Fuck, Dimitri—”

Dimitri’s tongue is sloppy, clumsy, flat against his hole before it slips in on what might be an accident, but _fuck_ , it feels good with Dimitri’s big hands holding him open, spreading him, his nose pressed against the cleft of his ass as Dimitri probes deeper, the point of his tongue splitting him open. Of course it’s messy, of course there’s spit on Dimitri’s chin and of course it slicks Sylvain’s hole, makes him wet with it, of course it slides from Sylvain’s hole to his taint and then to his balls, and god, he feels dirty and at bit used, but—

Dimitri pulls back for air with a loud, lewd noise, nuzzling and nipping at the swell of Sylvain’s ass as he catches his breath. “You still good?” he asks, and if Sylvain were any less of a man he would have been irritated, but at least Dimitri _cares_ , and his tongue had just been in his ass, so, “Yeah, I’m good,” and Dimitri nods against him before licking a stripe from his taint to his hole and blowing a stream of cold air to tease.

Sylvain hears a gasp from behind him, swallowed quickly by a moan before he feels a finger press against his hole. It’s a light pressure at first, testing, and then Dimitri steadies him with one hand and presses _in_ , and it’s not perfect, it’s a stretch and a burn and it feels a bit funny, but there’s all the slow, deep, unrelenting pressure of fullness, and that’s what Sylvain is chasing.

“Lube,” he gasps, because the spit is good, but it’s not enough. The finger withdraws and Sylvain whines, low in his throat, and cants his hips back to chase it. “Hurry, come on.”

He hears the click of the bottle and the first, fruitless squeeze of it, before there’s nothing but silence for ten very long, agonizing seconds. “Alright,” says Dimitri, because there must have been _some_ success, and then the finger returns only this time it’s cold and slick and the glide of it is so much easier.

“Fuck.” Sylvain squeezes his eyes shut, rocks forward against the pillow and feels the puddle where he’s begun to drip. “Dimitri, come on, come _on_.”

It’s a slow, gradual slide, with Dimitri taking care to thrust his finger only as much as Sylvain’s body allows. It’s kind, and sensible, and really it’s the correct thing to do, except Sylvain knows they’ll be here all day unless they move things along.

“Fuck me,” he says, and pushes back onto Dimitri’s finger. It’s thick, unrelenting, even for a single finger, and Sylvain knows he’ll need to work up to at least three before he can take Dimitri’s cock.

Dimitri listens, though; he moves his finger faster, sharper, a rhythmic _schlck_ that heats Sylvain’s veins with each thrust. When he’s meeting Dimitri thrust for thrust—once a single finger no longer feels like it’s splitting him in half—he asks for a second, and Dimitri complies, because Sylvain has taught him well.

Dimitri finds his prostate on accident, but Sylvain lets him know it. “ _Ah_ ,” he cries, clenching tight around Dimitri’s fingers. “There, there, that’s where you need to aim—” And Dimitri pries and prods and there’s a bit of nail at one point, but then his fingers light on his prostate and _rub_ and Sylvain bucks back against him, fucking himself on Dimitri’s fingers as Dimitri swallows audibly behind him.

“One more?” Dimitri asks. Sylvain nods, because he’s not feeling up to talking. He hears the click of the lube and then three fingers at his entrance, and once they start to push in, his toes curl and his back arches and he has to stop for breath.

“Pause,” he says, begs, pleads. “Gimme a sec. Just—a sec.” Dimitri stills obediently behind him, three fingers up to the first knuckle, and Sylvain clenches experimentally once he’s got air back into his lungs. He presses his forehead against the cool sheets, skin slick with sweat, and begins to thrust back onto Dimitri’s fingers. It’s gentle at first, tentative and shallow, but Sylvain feels his body open for him, feels himself relax around Dimitri’s thick fingers, and the feeling of that—of _opening_ , of feeling himself accept that girth, the weight of it—is enough to have him shuddering against the mattress, hips rolling frantically against the mattress with Dimitri’s fingers taken to the root.

He breathes. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Again. He steadies the thrusting of his hips, shudders against the throbbing of his cock where it presses desperately into the pillow. He’s gotta last, gotta make it through for Dimitri.

He breathes again, anchoring himself in the caress of Dimitri’s left hand against his ass, the slide of his palm to his thigh, kneading at the flesh of it. He anchors himself in Dimitri’s breathing, deep and wild and forced to rhythm, and after Sylvain finds he can match it, he nods.

“Ready,” he says.

“Are you sure?” Dimitri asks, even as he withdraws his fingers. “We can keep going. Prepping, I mean.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Sylvain tries to laugh, but it comes out as a groan. The emptiness left by Dimitri’s fingers is dizzying, and all he wants right now is to be _full_ again. He glances over his shoulder at Dimitri, rakes his eyes over the flush of his nipples, the hard swell of his cock where it juts out from between his legs. He’s flushed deep red and drooling, the head of his cock shiny with precum that rolls from the slit and dripping onto the sheets. “Condom,” Sylvain reminds him, and Dimitri nods.

Sylvain shifts to his knees as Dimitri roots through the bedside drawer. Victorious, Dimitri tears at the condom wrapper with his teeth, ripping it with only mild difficulty before he smooths the condom onto his cock. He looks to Sylvain, eyes wide and face flushed, and grins as he lies back on the bed, head resting comfortably on the pillows. When Sylvain tosses him the lube, he slicks up his dick with one hand, stroking lazily and with more confidence than he has any right to have.

Sylvain takes his place above Dimitri’s cock, one hand balanced on Dimitri’s chest as the other one reaches back to guide Dimitri to his hole. The first press of it is—big, broad and thick and wide and _fuck_ , Sylvain thinks, shivering as he begins to lower himself.

Dimitri’s hands are at his waist, soothing at his hips and stomach and occasionally straying to his chest, ever-roaming and steadying wherever they are. Sylvain lets it happen, lets Dimitri touch him, explore him, lets him thumb his nipples to hard, bright peaks as Sylvain breaches himself with Dimitri’s cock. Once the head is in—once Sylvain has managed to impale himself on the first two inches of Dimitri’s dick—he moves to lean on both hands, grasping at Dimitri’s chest with his head hung between his shoulders. He breathes, unsteady and shaky, and Dimitri presses a palm to his face.

“Alright?” he asks, blue eyes bright with concern.

“Of course I’m alright,” Sylvain mutters, even as he moves to press a kiss to Dimitri’s palm. “Never been better.”

Dimitri nods. “Good,” he says, “because I think I like you like this.”

There’s a husk in his voice that causes Sylvain to clench around him, aching to take him further, deeper, harder, and Sylvain shudders as he continues to slowly slide down Dimitri’s cock. It’s—unlike anything he’s ever felt before. It splits him open, spears him, fills him so completely he’s not sure he knows where Dimitri ends and he begins. It’s hard, and it burns, and his erection flags slightly as he lowers himself in little thrusts. He wants to go faster, wants to take it all, wants to slam himself down and damn the rest if only to stop the tenderness in Dimitri’s gaze, the way his fingers so delicately splay across his skin, the way he murmurs _shh_ and _good boy_ and _you’re taking it so well_ just like Sylvain taught him, except now Dimitri is saying it to him, using it on _him_ , and fuck if it doesn’t feel good, real, too—close—

Sylvain keeps sinking. Each additional inch he thinks is the last, and each additional inch proves him wrong. By the time he bottoms out he’s a shaking, shivering mess, hands clawing at Dimitri’s chest as he struggles to stay upright. He’s managed this long, has managed to keep his back straight and his head upright, half-lidded eyes locked on Dimitri’s own, but he feels himself shuddering, whimpering, and all he really wants is for Dimitri to fuck him.

“Fuck me,” he says, and when Dimitri says, “Are you sure?” Sylvain says, “ _Yes_.”

Dimitri fucks him.

It starts in shallow thrusts, in quiet rolls of Dimitri’s hips, with Dimitri’s big, warm hands gripping at his waist. It’s good like this, sweet like this, until Dimitri’s cock brushes his prostate and Sylvain keels forward, overstimulated and scrabbling against Dimitri’s chest.

“Hah,” he breathes, desperate, heat a tight coil in his belly while his toes curl and the hair at his nape buzzes with the sensation of it. “Fuck, fuck, Dimitri—”

“I got you,” Dimitri says, and _keeps going_ , thrusting up into Sylvain’s body a bit harder, a bit more direct, and the glide and bump against his prostate is almost too much for him to handle, except he wants it, needs it, wants to soak in the feeling of it forever, keep Dimitri locked away inside of him and ride him until he can’t speak or think of anything else.

“More,” Sylvain chokes. Dimitri gives him more. He grips Sylvain’s hips, now, fingers splayed against his ass, calluses dragging against the divot of his dimples that rest just above the swell of it, and Sylvain takes it. He begins to meet Dimitri’s thrusts, matching them somewhere halfway, reveling in the slide of Dimitri’s thick cock each time it leaves him a little more empty, a little more open, before fucking back into him with the all force behind Dimitri’s hips.

Sylvain whines with every thrust, buries his face in Dimitri’s neck and _bites_ , searching desperately for something to anchor him, to root him, to ground him against Dimitri’s earth-shaking thrusts. Dimitri howls beneath him, pitches his head back as his hands tighten on Sylvain’s body, and Sylvain hopes that there’ll be bruises come morning, wants some memory of this to take with him, even if it never happens again—except, god, he hopes it does—

Somewhere between Dimitri’s thrusts and Sylvain’s teeth at his throat, Sylvain finds a second to imagine the world of it. He imagines it like this: as Dimitri coming home in a full suit, silk tie expertly tied by Sylvain; as Dimitri swooping into the kitchen to kiss Sylvain on the cheek, to swat him on the ass, to make a comment about how good the house smells; as Sylvain smiling at him, leaning into him, asking him about his day as Dimitri tugs his tie from his neck and shrugs his suit jacket off and onto a chair. It’s all very domestic, very _homely_ , and if Sylvain weren’t ten inches deep on Dimitri he might scold himself, but—

Dimitri pulls all the way out, now, props Sylvain up and pulls him down, vertically, onto his cock, and Sylvain wails. Dimitri fucks him deep and hard, teeth grit and hands flexing against him where they push and tug and pull at him, where they manhandle him and lift him up and drag him back down, and Sylvain lets it happen. At this angle Dimitri’s cock brushes his prostate with almost every pass, and suddenly it’s too much, too overwhelming, to be so full and so held and so l—

Sylvain brings his hand to his cock, pulls twice, and comes.

Dimitri fucks him through his orgasm until he stops, shudders, and thrusts erratically into him, chasing his own release with a wild cry before he empties himself. Through the haze of his orgasm Sylvain almost believes he can feel it, the twitching inside of him, the flood of thick, stick cum, and god, god above, he _wants that_ , yearns for it, feels his cock twitch painfully through the last of his release at the thought of Dimitri pulling out and leaving behind a smear of his own seed.

That’s not what happens. They lie there, sticky and wet with sweat and semen, and they catch their breath. Dimitri softens enough to slip out of Sylvain, and Sylvain rolls to the side with a grunt and a whine.

“Gonna be sore,” he says, and Dimitri laughs, still a bit breathless.

“That happens,” Dimitri says, and Sylvain knows he means _to me, too_. It’s a reassurance, and Sylvain takes it.

They breathe, side by side, and stare at the ceiling.

Finally, Dimitri says, “I’ll go get cleaned up,” and Sylvain doesn’t stop him.

* * *

Half an hour later, and Sylvain still hasn’t left.

“You know I don’t spend the night,” he says, cautious. “We agreed.”

Dimitri has the good sense to look cowed, but he doesn’t give up. “It’s not night,” he says, and in all technicality, he’s right. The sun has only just begun to dip toward the horizon, the church bells tolling four times at the end of the street.

“It’ll be dark soon enough,” Sylvain tries again. He’s hedging.

Dimitri gives him a _look_ that is so very, very Felix. He sometimes forget they grew up together, but it’s hard to ignore in times like this. “Stay,” Dimitri says, and the husk of his voice curls sweet and low in Sylvain’s belly.

He swallows. “Not the whole night.” He has to draw a line somewhere, or—or he’ll have to, at some point, acknowledge what they’re doing. The way Dimitri pulls him close, nuzzles his nose into his red hair, a rumbling purr in his throat. The way Dimitri looks at him with those dangerous blue eyes, the way he smiles to his dimples when Sylvain grouses. They’ve been doing this dance for months, and Sylvain worries that if either of them acknowledges it as—as anything more than Dimitri sliding slow and sweet against him, than Sylvain taking Dimitri into his mouth and using the comfort of _good boy_ and _you’re doing so well_ and _look at you, taking me like that_ to bring himself off—if he can keep ignoring that it’s Dimitri’s voice that brings him off at night, curled hot and shameful beneath the covers, dripping cock in one hand and the other two fingers deep in his ass—

Sylvain gets into bed.

“I’m setting an alarm,” he says, and Dimitri doesn’t stop him. He reaches over the side to grab at his pants, phone still shoved into the back pocket, and tugs it out. He’s got several texts, a couple of emails, and at least one missed call, but it’s Felix’s name that catches his attention. Now that he’s with Dimitri—how that it’s over, his cock lying soft against his thigh—he does feel a bit bad for stranding Felix like he had. He opens the text.

 _hope u had fun w dimitri_ , Felix says. Sylvain scowls and replies, _hope u enjoyed ur uber_. He sets his alarms and throws his phone back on top of his jeans.

His phone buzzes less than thirty seconds later, screen lit up with one—two—three texts from Felix, but he ignores them in favor of curling back up with Dimitri, face tucked into his neck and breath tickling the hair at his nape. Dimitri’s arm settles over his waist, big hand pressing soft and warm at his hip, and Sylvain will allow himself this. Just for the afternoon, a bit of the evening. Only because it’s Christmas Eve.

When his alarm goes off at six, Sylvain gently slides out of bed, grabs his phone, and turns it off.

He gets back into bed.

* * *

Dimitri wakes, groggy and warm and sweaty against Sylvain, at two in the morning. Christmas music blares from down the street, lights flashing in alternating red and green through the window. He blinks once, twice, measuring the weight of Sylvain in his arms, and goes back to sleep.

* * *

They wake again at five. Dimitri makes them instant pancakes and burnt coffee, and Sylvain eats them without complaint. He doesn’t mention the alarm; doesn’t mention that Dimitri had slept through it, that Sylvain had reached blindly, guiltily, over the side of the bed to turn it off.

Instead, Sylvain blames it on his phone. “Fuckin’ hate it when that happens,” he says, sipping mildly at his coffee. It’s filled half to the brim with sugar to hide the burntness.

“Mm,” Dimitri agrees, and that’s that.

Sylvain leaves at seven, red hair stuck up at odd angles and one of Dimitri’s blue turtlenecks pulled over the bruises at his waist. “See ya,” he says with a short wave, and when he slinks out the door, Dimitri’s kiss is still warm against his cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter @nishtabel!


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